"I don't know."
"You said he was working alone."
Lucas barely hesitated. "I still think so. He wouldn't trust a partner. Not him."
Gilbert hurried toward the barn, still talking into his phone, then returned it to his belt as he opened the walk-in door and disappeared into the building.
Lucas glanced at his watch and quickly told Wyatt, "Pass the word to the other group leaders that we'll move in two minutes, at three twenty-two exactly. In the pattern discussed."
Wyatt grabbed his cell phone.
Glen appeared then to quickly report to Lucas, "There is a rear entrance to the barn, and it's well hidden from neighbors. Takes an old cattle trail up into the mountains. And it's been used a lot recently. I passed Jaylene on the way, and her group is moving to increase coverage on that side of the barn. She said to tell you he won't get past them."
"Good enough," Lucas said. "Especially with two of the sharpshooters with her. Glen, you're with us. We're going in the front- and we're not declaring ourselves until we're inside."
"Hope there's some cover in there," Wyatt muttered, but not as if the question bothered him too much.
Remembering Samantha's vision, Lucas hoped that what she had seen was as literal as her visions usually were. He checked his watch, then signaled the others and began moving swiftly but silently down the slope toward the barn.
As he neared the building, Lucas could hear faint sounds from inside and guessed that Gilbert was gassing up his vehicle in order to leave, probably from small gas cans that could have been inconspicuously brought up here. And luckily for those surrounding the barn, a Hummer did not have a small tank.
When they reached the door, Lucas gently turned the old piece of wood being used as a bar and then, without hesitating, pushed the door open and charged inside, his weapon held at the ready.
There was, luckily, cover in the form of numerous hay bales stacked just inside of and to one side of the door, presumably ready to be moved to block the view of anyone looking curiously into the building. Lucas, Wyatt, and Glen tumbled behind the hay bales and took up firing positions, with Lucas shouting, "Freeze, Gilbert! FBI!"
Standing in the open door of his Hummer and turned facing the rear of the vehicle and the cops, Gilbert did freeze. For just an instant. But then a snarl twisted his lips, and he reached toward his vehicle.
None of the cops hesitated.
Three shots rang out, even as his hand jerked up, the pistol falling from it. He was slammed back against the vehicle's door, his pale shirt and jacket shining wetly with spreading stains of blood.
Lucas came out from behind the hay bales and moved toward him, weapon still ready, and he was only a few feet away when Gilbert coughed, blood sputtering from his mouth, then slid down the open door until he was sitting on the ground.
As Lucas stood over him, Gilbert looked him straight in the eye, and with a strange, fixed grin and last, bloody gasp, muttered, "Checkmate."
Wyatt, joining Lucas in time to hear that, grunted, "At least the bastard knew you beat him."
"Did he?" Instead of triumph or even satisfaction, Lucas merely felt a vague uneasiness. He bent down to get Gilbert's gun and holstered his own, adding, "We need to search here and at the house. All we really have tying him to the kidnappings and murders is circumstantial evidence, and precious little of that."
"We both know he's our guy."
"Yeah. But there has to be evidence tying him to the crimes, and we need to find it."
"How about this?" Glen asked from the rear of the Hummer.
He had opened the hatch to check the cargo area and now stared inside the ATV.
The two other men joined him, and Lucas was barely aware of other cops coming into the barn as he gazed into the cargo area.
Lying on its back in the area that was just large enough to hold it was an obviously hand-built, high-backed wooden chair. It looked fairly ordinary, except for two odd brackets on either side of the high back, almost at the top.
There was a string-tied bundle of canvas wedged beneath the back; when Lucas pulled it out and untied it, two razor-sharp knives were revealed.
After a long moment, Lucas used a corner of the canvas to hold the knife, fitting it neatly into one of the chair's brackets. Pointing inward.
"The victims who were exsanguinated," he murmured. "He tied them in this chair with some restraint to keep their heads from moving forward and positioned the knives to just touch the jugular veins. Sooner or later, the victims' strength would give out, and their heads would fall to one side or the other. Cutting their own throats."
Grimly, Wyatt said, "I'd call this evidence. The goddamned thing still has bloodstains on it."
Lucas turned away, feeling unexpectedly sickened. "I guess this is what happens to a man who has his wife and child stolen from him."
"No," Wyatt said flatly, "it's what happens to a man who was twisted to begin with. Grief doesn't create monsters, Luke, we both know that. Not grief alone, not just that."
He did know, but it didn't make it any easier.
Jaylene hurried up just then, frowning. "Luke, Quentin just called. He's at the sheriff's department. He went there to keep an eye on Sam, the way he and Galen have apparently been doing for some time. But they were distracted by something weird going on at the carnival, and by the time Quentin could get to the sheriff's department… Luke, Sam's missing."
Lucas stared at her, everything inside him going cold. "Somebody warned Gilbert," he murmured. "Somebody told him we were coming. Somebody else. Oh, Christ. That's what he meant. I didn't make the last move. He did."
Trying to fight her way out of sleep, Samantha had a fuzzy memory she wasn't sure she trusted. Between the pounding headache, dizziness, and nausea, she had just wanted to lie on the couch in the lounge with her eyes closed for as long as possible. She supposed she had fallen asleep, except for this vague, unsettling memory of not being able to breathe because something was covering her nose and mouth.
Now she felt even more queasy, her head was still pounding, and it was amazingly difficult to pry her eyelids open. It took several tries, and all the while she was wondering irritably what was causing that hissing sound.
At first, she didn't understand what she saw.
Wood?
Wood, over her, no more than eight or ten inches above her face. Now, why on earth-
Then a cold realization crawled into her mind, and she heard her breath catch.
She reached up slowly and pushed against the wood.
Nothing.
It didn't give so much as a fraction of an inch.
Samantha pushed harder, desperation lending her strength, and still the solid wood failed to budge.
She lifted her head as far as she was able and looked down toward her feet. A battery light was placed there, providing just enough illumination for her to see.
To see the canister of oxygen lying beside her and hissing softly as it slowly leaked its contents.
To see the dimensions of the box in which she lay.
To understand that this was her coffin.
Even as cold terror washed over her and panic fought for a foothold in her mind, Samantha remembered her vision, remembered seeing Gilbert say something at the last, something she hadn't been able to hear.
She thought she knew, now, what he had said.
"Checkmate."
Even as the cops took him down, Andrew Gilbert had been sure he had won the game. Because the final move had been his. Somehow, he had done this.
He had buried her alive.
Asphyxiation.
Lucas couldn't stop thinking about it. It had been Gilbert's other preferred method of remote murder. And Samantha had said herself that the easiest way to asphyxiate someone over a period of time would be to bury them alive.
Oh, Christ, Sam…
Jaylene and Wyatt were supervising the rapid search of the house and barn, both hoping that something they discovered would point them in the direction of Samantha.